


Blue Dahlia

by pearypie



Series: blue moonlight on yellow sand [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Contemplation, Dark, F/M, Hidden Secrets, Pre-Canon, Protective Older Brothers, Siblings, Stolen Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 15:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: Marriage has always been an interesting concept for the Phantomhives and Vincent is unusually protective of his baby sister.After all, blood is thicker than water and - there was a love affair, wasn't there?(Pre-canon)





	Blue Dahlia

“Why don’t you take a swim in the ocean? That’ll rouse your drowsy spirits and invigorate your stupid mind.” Frances said matter-of-factly as she sat primly on the sofa, book in hand, and eyes fixed on the words of Captain Matthew Berriman. The very picture of a dutiful, obedient sister.

 _If only._ Vincent chuckled. “My dear, you’re more abrasive than usual tonight. Don’t tell me this has to do with my affair with that schoolfriend of yours—“

“How arrogant you are to think I’d waste even a moment of my time contemplating your love life.”

“Then you’re upset that your darling older brother is leaving for Denmark in two weeks time.” He said knowingly. “But fret not dear Frances, I shall endeavor to bring you back a souvenir.”

“You presume too much, you arrogant man.”

“And you’re more obstinate than usual, lady fairest.” He gave her a winning smile—the same smile that’d narrowly allowed him to avoid expulsion after he missed the entire first month of Professor Merivale’s Rousseau and Enlightenment class. It wasn’t his fault the lectures were scheduled so early in the morning and he himself slept so late.

It was a matter of principle and wasn't Rousseau a man of principle? Or _was,_ in that case. Either way, the memory of old Professor Merivale—with his cloud shock hair and skeletal frame—brought a smile to Vincent’s face; that draconian slavedriver really was too easy to rile up. A bit like Diedrich, though not half as clever.

“What are you smiling about?” Frances interrupted, eyes still fixed firmly on her book though her knuckles were white and Vincent feared they would need a new copy of Berriman’s _Militiaman’s Manuel_ after Frances tore that one in half. 

She never was terribly open about these sort of emotional things, Vincent mused, reclining back in his seat with a curious little half-smile. “What do you say to this, little sister—I’ll tell you just about anything if you set that book aside and give me a proper smile.” He tried, knowing full well Frances would sooner swallow a porcupine whole than give in to his demands so easily.

The emerald green glare she shot him only validated his belief. 

“You’d tell me nothing,” she sniffed. “I’m your sister and I know you lie as well as you breathe.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it like _that—_ “

“You lie so well that you don’t even have the decency to tell me that you’ve—that you’ve decided to—“ she bit her lip, squeezing the book in her hands as she tried to steady her breathing.

Vincent was genuinely curious now. “Would you care to finish that statement? I’ve done a lot of things and might need a bit of clarification—not very good with task management, you see.” He winked and could have sworn he saw Frances glance at her sparing sabres hanging over the mantle place. “Oh, don’t think of killing me now—you’d hate wearing black for three months.” 

“I’d also hate to be shackled to a living, breathing idiot but that’s not stopping you from orchestrating the wedding!” The book tumbled from her hands as she shot up, cheeks flushed red with anger, humiliation, and hurt. “I know my place in life is to marry well and bring influence to the Phantomhive name but of all the cretinous nobles you could have yolked me to you have the audacity to—to—oh, I can’t even look at you!” Frances began her march to the door before Vincent caught her wrist, an expression of sincere bewilderment writ on his handsome face.

She met his sapphire eyes with her chin up and stance proud—a Phantomhive to her very core.

“Sister dear,” Vincent smothered a chuckle, deciding a bit of caution couldn't hurt when interrogating a volatile Frances Phantomhive. “I am a man who’s very rarely surprised so you must believe me when I say I have absolutely no idea what you’re going on about.” 

“Don’t play me for an idiot." She snapped. "You’re already marrying me to one.”

Vincent raised a brow. “I wasn’t aware of your pending nuptials. Tell me, would you prefer a glass sugar bowl or a pair of candlesticks?”

“I could snap your neck you little—“

“Oh calm yourself,” Vincent soothed, standing so they were face to face. Frances wore an expression of disdainful apprehension that looked out of quite place on a woman such as herself and it evoked, oddly enough, a peculiar sense of worry for the sister who was always so capable. “Now, explain to me this situation that sounds, if you don't mind my saying so, rather like a poorly writ dime novel.” He kept his tone placid—calming even.

An irate Frances Phantomhive was a hurricane even the Queen’s Watchdog could not tolerate for extended periods of time.

She, in turn, gave him a baleful look as he continued to clutch at her wrist. “The marriage contract.” His sister managed. “I saw it. The one mother wrote when I was five years old.”

“Marriage contract?” Vincent’s brows furrowed.

“Don't pretend.” Frances scowled. “You're far too clever for this game of ignorance. After all, mother signed it and you kept it. I know you’re planning to marry me off to that horrid boy once he turns seventeen.”

“Frances—“ 

“And if he doesn’t pass away from some fatal disease within the first six months then I’ll be forced to take matters into my own hands, and I don’t doubt her majesty will issue a warrant for my arrest, thus forcing me to spend the rest of my days in Australia while you live with the stigma of having a murderess as your sister all because you’ve chosen _now_ to show a shred of decency and uphold your word. Well, I’ll tell you this—you’re word won’t mean much after I’ve pummeled you with your own intensities, Vincent Phantomhive—don’t think I won’t do it.” She finished, eyes blazing and tone fierce even as he continued to smile that insufferable half-smile of his. 

“Baby sister if there’s one thing I’m sure of is that you’d end up the empress of Australia if her majesty sent you there but we both know she won’t.” He flicked aside a loose curl by her ear. “After all, you warrior queen types are deadly and I hardly think her majesty would like to see herself upstaged by a reincarnation of Isabella of Castile.” He said rather seriously, though his eyes were warm—warmer than they’d been in years as he looked on his sister, the sister who’d stood by his side as the underworld washed over them and they stained their hands in blood, one after the other in absolute succession.

He touched her cheek, fingertip tracing his sister’s sharp angled cheekbone down to the hollow of her cheeks. “Do you really suppose I’d marry you off to that philandering peacock, Frances?”

“It’s not a matter of what I think or even what I want. I saw mother’s signature printed on that piece of paper, clear as day.”

“Yes, and I’ll have you know she changed her mind not three days later when she saw the expression on your face after you took one look at Aleister Chamber.” 

At that statement Frances looked up so quickly Vincent feared she’d give herself whiplash if not for the bright gleam in her verdure eyes, the way her mouth softened, and suddenly, Vincent couldn’t help but trace her bottom lip, a faint smile on his face. “Stunned silence?” He teased. “Come now little sister—sing my praises, I’m not a modest man.”

“No you’re not.” She concurred but the hardness that had been etched in her voice moments before was gone, replaced by a quiet sense of relief and gratitude as she exhaled, tension leaving her shoulders. 

He toyed with a piece of Frances’s hair, marveling at the pale gold color—how it reminded him of winter sunlight and cool steel and was so distinctly _Frances_ that Vincent couldn’t help but find it pleasing to the eye. _Baby sister and her silver blades,_ he mused, watching as she met his eyes again and the elegance of her face softened to a sweetness that he hadn’t seen since they were children. The way her eyes lit up, the slight crinkle of her nose, and the fullness of her mouth as her smile stretched just a bit wider.

Vincent could’t help it, he’d always been a man of personal vanity. 

“Now, now,” he murmured, fingertip tapping her chin, “where’s my kiss?”

She rolled her eyes. “We’re too old for kissing games Vincent.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “we are. But I still want my kiss.”

She swatted his hand away but her movements were gentle—playful even. “You’re such a _child,_ brother of mine.”

“Well, suppose I am.” He challenged and a devious expression took hold of him as he wrapped his arms around Frances's waist. “Let’s be children again, just for a moment.”

She bit her lip. “Vincent—“

“No, this is _my_ game.” He insisted in a teasing tone, pressing one kiss to his sister's jaw before she relaxed and rolled her eyes, letting him continue with just the slightest hint of exasperation. “Excellent!” He crowed, suddenly falling back onto the nearby chaise and dragging Frances down with him. He laughed as she gave a slight shriek, unprepared as she was for when they collapsed down, her on top of him and Vincent’s hands locked firmly round her. 

“Vincent you little _toad_ —“

“You’ll have to kiss me to turn me human again.” He nuzzled her neck. “Come now princess, give me a kiss. Break the spell and I’ll give you anything you ask for.”

“And if I say no? If I just decide to climb out the window and disappear to London?”

“Then I’ll have to chase you to London but I’d be rather cross.” He pouted, pressing a feather light kiss to her neck. “After all, I _did_ save you from a horrendous match—“

“That was more than a decade ago and it was _mother_ who saved me. You were seven back then and couldn’t do more than harass your governess.”

“I did escape her watch quite often.” He reflected fondly.

“But she was a drinker wasn’t she?”

“Yes, and some say I helped push her to alcoholism.”

Frances raised a brow. “You sound rather proud of that.”

“Well it’s the one crime I can’t get convicted for.” He defended, tightening his grip around Frances’s waist.

“You really were born to be the Queen’s Watchdog, weren’t you?” She looked down at him, fondness in her gaze and a smile on her lips.

Vincent’s answer was a cheeky grin of his own.

She sighed, resigned to his game. “Alright. If I give you your kiss, would you actually keep a promise this time?”

“On my honor as a Phantomhive.” He vowed with the utmost sincerity. 

The two siblings looked at each other—Vincent, serious, and Frances, skeptical.

It didn’t take long before they dissolved into laughter, with Frances pressing her cheek to Vincent’s chest, feeling the deep reverberations of laughter thrumming through his chest, echoing across his heart as he continued to hold her. “Oh sister dear,” he laughed, “we _are_ rather wretched aren’t we?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “but you’ve earned your kiss.”

 

In the end, she asked that he live long enough to see his own child become watchdog—to live for as long as he possibly could. Vincent laughed at her request, draping kisses on her shoulders because he was still young and invincible and the world was at his mercy.

And in the end, he’d had his way—he stole half a dozen kisses after he swore his promise, lips pressing against Frances’s own as one hand came to draw her closer, ruining the curls of her pale blonde hair as he ran his tongue along her lower lip and tasted citrus fruit and marzipan.

His sister always had a terrible sweet tooth.

“When you get married,” he murmured in between kisses, “I’ll walk you down the aisle and kiss you full on the mouth, where everyone can see. Right as you’re standing by the alter. It’ll be fun that way, don’t you think? You’d be getting two husbands in one day.”

“That’s blasphemy.” Frances breathed, eyes glassy and face flushed because Vincent liked long kisses—the kind that stole your breath away and left your heart hammering in your chest. It left her fighting for air as she kissed him back and in truth, she wouldn’t want to be kissed any other way.

And Vincent, in all his arrogance, _knew._

He laughed as he placed another kiss (Frances had lost count long ago) on the corner of her mouth. “It’s not.” He insisted. “Love isn’t blasphemy.”

“Yes, but bigamy is.”

He considered for a moment and then shrugged. “You’re right about that.” He conceded but Frances caught the devilish half-smirk on his mouth, saw how his eyes gleamed with a hint of triumph. “But by then you’d be married to _me_ because I kissed you first.” His voice lowered. “I’ve _always_ kissed you first.”

“You’d have a wife of your own then.”

“You think?” He sounded thoughtful. “I don’t see myself as a marrying man—do you?” He asked, gazing up at the sister who looked nothing like him. Who managed to kill with such valor and dignity that he wondered, half a dream ago, what would've happened if they'd left England. Left for Italy, France, Spain—

“We’re Phantomhives.” She said at last, mouth red with kisses. “We do as we must.”

“Love was never part of the equation, was it? After all, mother certainly didn’t love father.”

“Duty born and duty bound.” Frances answered, sounding wise beyond her years. “Mother did hers, now we must do ours.”

“You nearly bit my head off at the thought of marrying Aleister Chamber.” He pointed out, wanting her to agree—to press herself into him for validation and triumph.

Instead, she smiled—a small smile, one that was mysterious and calm and so heartachingly familiar. “I can’t put off marriage forever—and neither can you, Vincent.”

“I suppose I can’t.” He sighed. “Things would be so much easier if I married you, now wouldn’t it?” 

She laughed, a throaty deep sound that was rare as it was beautiful. “Yes.” She pressed her cheek to his chest. “I’d kill you without an ounce of regret.”

“And I’d welcome it.” He smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Um, review? *Scurries off in shame*


End file.
